


The Pattern of Drizzled Caramel on My Whipped Cream

by Unknown



Series: Starting From Scratch [2]
Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, SO, ahaha, also intersex babies, and my real name, and um, hope you're ready for that, sue me, there are babies, they'll be fine, whoops, worry for them a bit?, wrong spelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:03:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unknown/pseuds/Unknown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond notices the second it turns into a pattern.<br/>Had it been a year before, Bond would be worried that Q was going to leave him, that the stress was too much or his absences too long.<br/>But Bond knows better. Something is actually wrong with Q.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Foam On Your Lip

**Author's Note:**

> Yay next installment!!! This one has two chapters.

Bond notices the second it turns into a pattern.

Q starts avoiding things. He avoids certain stores, changes the telly when a certain commercial comes on. Out in the street, he avoids large families with strollers and children. He avoids baby blue and pink like the devil and when Moneypenny talks about her new niece, he leaves the room. It’s the little things, the avoidance, the looks of heartache on his face, the aborted movements.

The silence.

That’s the worst of it. Bond’s skin crawls when Q goes silent two months into the pattern. He’s a sensible man, tells himself it will pass, but then it doesn’t. Q gets spacey, blanks out when Bond is talking to him.

Had it been a year before, Bond would be worried that Q was going to leave him, that the stress was too much or his absences too long. But since they’d dated for a year and then Bond had found out that his dearest Aaron was really the Quartermaster for MI-6, he knew better. They’ve married since then for a year, quiet and hush-hush, Moneypenny the only one privy to the ceremony.

So Bond knows better. Something is actually wrong with Q.

* * *

After months of the pattern, it all comes to a head one night. Bond is in the process of making sweet love to the love of his life after an especially dangerous mission when Q starts to shake in his arms, his eyes red and glassy. He immediately stops, pulling out and looking down at the man in question, confusion on his face.  He bends down and presses a kiss to Q’s temple, lays on his side, gathering the man in his arms, Q’s slim back pressed against his hard chest.

“We’re going to have to talk about it sometime, Aaron,” Bond murmurs into his hairline. He doesn’t mind the interruption, though he feels the foreign strand of worry worming its way into his heart. He needs to know what’s wrong. He needs to know now, should have known ages ago. “Aaron…”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” Q says around a silent sob. He burrows closer to Bond. “I know what the answer is and I’m just coming to terms with it. That’s all.”

Bond sighs. “Tell me what you need, Aaron. And I will do all in my power to give it to you.”

“This is one thing that – you can’t give me what I need, James,” he whispers. “Not this.”

Bond feels his stomach lurch. What the hell is this? His worry soars and he presses his mouth to Q’s shoulder, his heart beating a tattoo against his ribs. For the past two years, he’s been able to give Q everything he could. He refuses for this to be the one thing he can’t give him.

“Tell me,” he says softly against Q’s skin. “Just tell me.” He feels Q shake his head ‘no’. “Please, Aaron. You don’t know-”

“I want a baby,” Q says, monotone, into the dark. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything else, just lays there as Bond freezes up, a hysteria seizing his chest.

Bond unwinds his arms from Q’s body and turns onto his back, his jaw tight, grinding his teeth. Q doesn’t move. Bond can’t think of anything to say, feels the breath get knocked out of his chest at four small words. The worst part, the absolute worst part is that Q already knew this would happen and had been trying not to bring it up because he knew. He knew and Bond feels his chest get tight. He doesn’t know if he’s angry or sad or hurt, but he can’t stay in bed with the man who’s lying next to him, not moving at all except for his breathing.

He leaves bed, changes into sweats and walks out of their flat and Q hasn’t said anything, doesn’t _say_ anything, doesn’t _do_ anything and it’s ripping Bond apart.

He runs until the tears spring to his eyes of their own accord and he’s so far out of the city that he doesn’t have to wipe them away.

* * *

“What’s wrong with the both of you?” Moneypenny asks a week later. It’s been hard. They sleep in the same bed, but Bond is having a hard time with intimacy all of a sudden now that he knows exactly why Q is so distraught and the fact that he really _can’t_ fix this, can’t give him this.

“Do you have children Eve?” Bond snaps at her. He’s suiting up before a mission and beside him, Q flinches as if he’s been hit. Bond sighs and grimaces. Shit. Suddenly there’s a hand on his arm, soothing and the perfect weight. Q is looking at him with so much affection and pain in his eyes that Bond doesn’t know if he’s angry at him or pitying him.

“Relax, James,” he says, his voice low, comforting, and it’s wrong. Bond should be comforting him. Q is the one who’s had his dreams wrecked, his husband acting like an arse for all the world to see.

“I don’t,” Eve says slowly, not exactly understanding what the hell is going on between them.

“My point exactly,” Bond says quietly and walks out on the both of them, because his head starts to reel and he sees Q’s eyes get glassy at the corner of his eye.

* * *

“You’re acting like a right arse,” Q says after half a month of his bad attitude. They’re in his office after a mission. Bond has bruises peppering his face, cuts on his knuckles, a broken rib or two. He’s not looking at the one person he pledged his life to, above his Queen and Country. It’s been almost a month since they’ve touched each other intimately. A week since they’ve spoken about something other than work. Since no one else at MI-6 is privy to their relationship, they’re given odd looks and people keep asking what the matter is between them that’s making their missions so tense.

M had just suggested ten minutes before that maybe 007 should be switched out with another agent for the Quartermaster, just for a bit. Yes, he’s ignorant to the goings-on of their personal lives, but that didn’t mean that Bond and Q alike had realized that they needed to actually talk about it like adults this time.

Q realizes he’s not starting that strong. But it’s the best he’s got.

“I know,” Bond says. And then he just sits there because all his shortcomings flood to the surface all the reasons that what Q is asking for is a horrible, terrible, no-good idea. It makes him choke with emotion because it’s not a thought he’s ever allowed himself to have. Never, ever, there was no room for it in his mind, in his life. He just sits and closes his eyes, his head hanging, pressing down on a bruise because the pain is better than this feeling of vulnerability.

“James,” Q says, helplessly, rubbing his temples. “I know alright? I know.” He knows exactly what Bond can’t find it in himself to say. “But you asked, and I just… I had to say something and it’s alright.” His voice turns soft, as though he’s speaking to a spooked animal. “It’s alright, James,” he says again, carefully walking over to him. Q sits carefully in Bond’s lap, faces turned toward each other, Q’s arms wrapped around his neck. Bond’s arms come up around his waist, and he’s silent the whole time Q pulls his face to the crook of his neck, runs his fingers through Bond’s hair. “I understand,” Q says softly. “I do.”

“I’m sorry,” is all Bond can think of to say. Because it’s the worse feeling ever to acknowledge not being able to make someone you love happy. “I am sorry, Aaron,” he whispers hoarsely against a warm throat and he’s missed this. He’s missed this and it’s all because of his own stupidity. Bond buries his nose in Q’s neck, resting his lips right over his pulse. Q’s hand is in his hair, the other sliding down to rub his back gently, always mindful of his injuries.

“I know,” Q says softly. “I know.”

* * *

It gets better.

A month later and they’re back to where they were, maybe better. All the sessions of having sex on every surface of the flat and their respective offices must have helped. And Moneypenny’s on that one occasion that none of them are ever speaking of again, because she had walked in, then walked right out and said some obscene things to them. Then again, she had every right.

“At least you aren’t cross with each other anymore,” she’d huffed and yes, at least there was that.

They move past it, slowly. Q starts to smile regularly again, and he’s back to his regular self soon after the smiles return. His avoidance of all things infant-related gets turned into a fidgeting  of discomfort that turns into a wistful sigh of coming-to-terms. He’s more comfortable with the fact of being childless and even talks about it sometimes, when he thinks Bond can stand to hear it.

Bond is a different story. He’s completely glad that Q has worked his way through it, that he’s had a hand in it, but… There’s a small part of him that’s starting to _think_ about it all the time. Children. Or even just one. A baby girl or boy, a small little human being with its life totally dependent on Bond and Q. He gets a rush of… something. Maybe paternal longing, maybe panic. Reasons flood his mind as to why it would never work. He’s a 00 agent, his husband is the Quartermaster for an entire government espionage agency. Between his absences and Q’s late nights, the child would see next to nothing of them. It’s dangerous as well, a child of a spy and computer mastermind. All the threats against them, all the ways that the child could be used against either one of them, the national security measures that would have to be taken because of them.

No. Too much nonsense. Too much chaos. Not worth it.

Until he catches Q looking at their spare room in the flat with a longing look on his face and he shakes himself out of it when he catches Bond starting at him.

“Sorry,” Q says with a bitter smile. “Thinking about it again.” He chuckles sadly. “Maybe I can turn it into an office or something. Though I don’t think it healthy of us to encourage working _more_ in our own home.”

That’s what starts the visits.

* * *

It’s a furniture store, and Q is working. Bond is supposed to be recuperating from his last mission, but when has he ever done that? He walks in and straightens out his jacket. He’s in a gray sweater and denims, black trainers on his feet. He feels out of place amid the couches and coffee tables. But that’s not what he’s here for.

Moving farther into the store, he makes his way to the maternity section. Cots and cradles line the walls, all mass produced in different styles, accented in different colors and designs. Bond shakes his head and swallows hard, fighting the discomfort and panic. He walks into the open room, starts to look around. It gets easier after an hour of walking in slow, aimless circle, comparing the size of each and every cot with the left corner nook of the spare room. After he’s singled it down to those that would be a perfect fit, he goes for unisex looking cots, with neutral colors. After those are single out, he looks for the best wood frame, and in the end, he’s left looking at an oak paneled cot with black and white coverings, accents of green swirling the paneling.

“Can I help you sir?” a chipper voice says by his side and he slowly turns, not surprised in the least. He heard her coming five minutes ago, by the sharp click of her stiletto shoes.

“Maybe,” he says obscurely.

She pauses and blinks slowly. “Well, are you expecting?”

“Maybe,” Bond says, circling the cot. She clasps her hands together.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,” she says helplessly.

Bond lifts his head from where he’s been surveying the underside of the cot. “My husband and I,” he says, very blasé about it all. “Thinking about adopting.”

“Oh!” she says with a smile. “That’s different! But completely fine,” she says, suddenly worried. “Completely fine.”

“I know it’s fine,” he says, a bit amused. “I like this one. How long can you hold it for?” He lets a hand come down to caress the wood frame at the head of the cot. It’s a possibility. Not permanent, not definite. But a possibility. One he needs some time to come to terms with.

“Six months,” she says without hesitation. “With a retainer of 25% of the cost of the furniture, of course. You’ll get your money back if, at the end of the six months you decide you don’t want it.” She smiles at him.

Bond nods. “Right. We’ll do that then.” He goes to the front desk with her, signs the necessary forms and gives her his card for the expenses.

“Hope to see you soon!” she says, pleased with herself. “And bring your husband next time.”

Bond grunts. Sure he will. If he can even get that far.

* * *

It starts with a cot and moves onto clothes, then toys (which completely terrify him because children can choke on shit like that, my god. If they’re ever having an infant, Q is making all of the baby’s toys), and it goes onto research. The best formula, how to make a colic baby more comfortable, what the hell _colic_ even means. It’s done in secret, on isolated servers that Eve gives him the passwords to, hinging his tracks.

“What the hell are you being so sneaky for?” she asks one day.

“Do you have children Eve?” he asks her, serious and not spiteful this time.

Her face softens. “No, I don’t.” She stops. “Why?”

“I might actually want…” He stops, shakes his head.

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, alright. Snoop away.”

“Eve?”

“Mmm?”

“Simlac or SMA?” Bond asks, a smirk on his face. Eve pauses, a look of confusion gracing her features.

“I’d choose if I knew what the hell either of them were,” she says humorously.

“Formula,” he says, chuckling.

“ _Baby_ formula?” she says, surprise coloring her voice. “Like… shit, Bond. What are you getting yourself into?”

“I have no idea,” he answers honestly.

* * *

He doesn’t research adoption.

Bond remembers being ten years old and alone in the world. His parents were dead and he was in and out of so many homes and orphanages his head still spins just thinking of it. He’d been too old to be wanted and when he’d finally landed in the hands of MI-6 and M, he’d been so far gone it hadn’t taken much to convince him to join up. Orphans, as M had said, are the best recruits.

How different it would have been, Bond thinks, if someone had wanted him. If he’d been taken in and raised with love and kindness. If he’d found a family with other people, had learned differently. Remembered what a kiss goodnight was by a loving mother, what a clap on the back for a job well-done from a father felt like. But he’d learned the harshness of the streets, of loss and cruelty at a young age. And maybe he’d never have found his way to Aaron if he hadn’t gone through all the heartache and pain.

At this point in his life, it’s unacceptable to think that he wouldn’t have the man he loved with him now if his life had gone differently. And maybe, if Bond can be that saving grace for someone, and save them from everything he had to learn the hard way, if Aaron is by his side when he does it…

Maybe he can do this after all.

* * *

It’s six months after the pattern had started, after they’d resolved things, when Bond realizes that with the right security on the flat and if Kincade would be willing to fly down for babysitting, Bond actually wants this. It’s six months late, but he’s decided that this is something he and Q can do together.

Unfortunately, his epiphany comes when he’s on a mission. And being shot at.

“Q, we need to talk,” he says as he rolls and dodges another bullet.

“007, I think this can wait until you’re covered,” Q says tensely into his ear. Bond chuckles lowly and Q’s insides melt. He loves that laugh. If he were being vain, he’d say that was one of the top reasons he agreed to marry the man.

“You really want to wait?” Bond says, and that’s strange. He’s never been insistent.

Q snorts. “Yes. I’d rather you didn’t get shot because you were too busy discussing some such other rubbish with me.”

“Not rubbish,” Bond grunts, and there are gunshots. Everything goes quiet then.

“Bond?” Q says a bit worriedly.

“Right here,” Bond responds, and Q lets out a breath.

“You complete arse. You gave me a heart attack,” Q says with a laugh of relief and his underlings disperse, grumbling to themselves.

“Me too,” Bond admits and then he says, “Put us on a private line and stop recording.” As a safety precaution, all conversations over the comm. are recorded. Q frowns.

“What? Bond, no, what if something-”

“I’m getting to the airport so I can go home, Q. Nothing is going to happen. And we need to talk,” Bond says. Q gets on his cameras and gets Bond in his sights. He’s hesitant to isolate them and stop recording, but he sighs.

“Why?” he asks. Just once more.  Why did he marry such a stubborn man?

“I don’t think you want the whole MI-6 to listen to us discuss this,” Bond says.

“Discuss what?”

“I want a baby,” Bond says seriously and Q’s hand freezes where it was going to turn off the recording. He can’t breathe. “Q? Are you alive?”

Q puts them on a separate line and stops recording, reminding himself to edit the clip later before he puts it in the official mission file. Then he breathes harshly through his nose for a second, feeling sick to his stomach.

“I thought we went through this already,” Q says softly. “What are you talking about James?”

“I’ve been thinking about it. Obsessively. And… I was wrong. When you wanted one and I said I was sorry because I couldn’t… Jesus, Aaron, I was wrong,” Bond says. On the video feed, Q can see the emotion on his face, can hear it in his voice.

“I … James, how am I supposed to-”

“And it started with checking out cots because I couldn’t get it off my mind,” Bond continues, heedless of what his husband is saying. “And then I was looking at baby clothes all over London and decided that whether we had a son or daughter, I wouldn’t want them in stereotypical blue or pink, because my daughter can grow up to be a spy if she wants to and my son is certainly allowed to be a dancer if that’s his calling.” He pauses. “ _Trotters_ and _Petit Bateau_ have black and white new born clothes, by the way. I like that better.”

Q lets out a laugh, and if it sounds like a sob, then no one tells him. “When the hell did this start?”

“It started when I told you ‘no’ because I was too afraid of saying ‘yes’ and I have regretted it ever since. I put you through sadness because I thought I couldn’t give you what you wanted and in the end, I wanted it as well and sure as hell could provide you with it.” Bond sighs on the screen and in Q’s ear and leans against a light pole. “I started thinking what it would have been like if I had been taken in straight after my parents died. And I want… I want to be at least half the father my own was, because he was wonderful and I don’t think I could ever be that good. Half the father he was is good enough for me.”

Q sits, because he’s shaking and he thought that he’d lost his chance at it. He’d been willing to put it aside and be alright with it because he loved the man he married and could respect that it was a step he wasn’t sure he could take.

“Are you serious?” he asks, just because he needs to hear Bond say it again.

“I put a retainer down on a cot,” Bond says by way of answer.

“When?” Q asks, sitting up so fast his head gets dizzy.

“Four months ago,” Bond says and Q starts to laugh hysterically. “Which reminds me that I need to go in today and pay for the rest of the damn thing before she takes it off of layaway.” He pauses. “I’m not going to make it. Can you?”

Q is speechless. Then he says, “What’s the address?”

He can see Bond smiling on his screen.

_

The woman at the furniture store is clearly pleased to see that they’re buying the cot. She’s a bit surprised when he asks to see it, coming with the rest of the payment and she cocks her head to the side, looks at his wedding ring.

“You’re…” She looks at her papers. “Mr. Bond’s husband?”

Q nods and extends a hand. “Aaron Quincy Bond, yes.” She shakes her hand, pleased. “I actually haven’t seen the damn thing. Mind if we take a look?”

When she shows it to him, he’s in awe because it’s gorgeous and the perfect size to fit… to fit the left corner nook of their spare room. He takes out his mobile as the woman calls in some workmen to box the set up and ship it to his flat.

“Bond,” comes the voice on the other end.

“The last time I looked at the spare room was months ago,” Q says breathless. “How long have you been sitting on this?”

“ _Months_ ,” Bond admits. “Long enough to know the difference between several different baby formulas, diapers and teething rings.” Bond sounds exhausted, actually, like it’s been bothering him for so long and it’s been such a hardship for him to be acting like a parent before he even becomes one.

“Prat,” Q says, but he’s choking up. “James, you have to be serious and tell me you want this. You have to. Please, tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” comes Bond’s strong, soft voice, full of conviction. “With you.”

“I’d hope so,” Q says and he laughs again. “So, we’re doing this, aren’t we?”

“Seems like.”

“Eve’s going to be livid that you put me through hell for it,” he says, just to tease him.

Bond’s next sigh crackles through the speakers. “So it would seem.”

_

Eve is livid and she does give Bond hell for it, and Q laughs the entire time before asking her to be the godmother.

Then she cries.

_

It’s a year since the pattern started and ended, two years since they’ve been married, three years since they met in a coffee shop on the boulevard.

There’s an infant in the cot in the left corner nook of a spare room that has been outfitted into a nursery.

They aren’t sure what to do with a name.

It’d been a closed adoption. The mother had been about three months pregnant when she had started looking for a family. As far as Bond and Q knew, they were one of the first to get referred to her. She’d chosen them immediately. Neither Bond nor Q knew who she was, and she didn’t know who they were. The adoption agent claimed that the woman wanted nothing to do with the child and when Q broke into their records just to be sure, it was confirmed. After that, they had no contact with the woman.

Both men had been at the hospital the day their child had been born. It had been a smooth birth, all three parties not wanting to know the sex of the child until the birth – the babe’s new parents out of excitement and it’s biological mother’s simply out of carelessness.

That’s when there had been a problem.

“Intersex,” Bond says again, staring at the infant sleeping in the cot below him. He’s leaning against the sideboard, staring down in fascination as their child sleeps. There had been a moment of worry when the adoption agent and doctors had thought that Bond and Q were going to back off the adoption, but after six months of ultrasounds and planning a room and picking names, it would take a lot more than a gender bump to stop them from taking this child into their home.

“Actually, approximately one out of one hundred births yield intersex children. Some just don’t show it, physically,” Q says, staring at the baby as well. The infant is gorgeous, with soft ivory skin, rosy cheeks, a soft dusting of brownish hair on that small head. “Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia.”

“Say again?” Bond says, letting a finger trail down a soft cheek.

“It’s the condition she has,” Q says. “One out of every thirteen-thousand. And ours was the lucky one.” He pauses. “You know it’s going to be tough to raise him, don’t you?”

“I see what you did there,” Bond says. He sighs, then smiles. “I know. But when have we ever done anything the easy way?” He looks back to the baby. “They need a name.”

“Mmm. Something neutral obviously,” Q says. “Something right though. I want to look at our child and know that they embody that name.”

Bond snorts. “Of course, love.” He stares at the infant and makes a face. “Is it odd that I already feel fiercely protective?” He swallows hard, a bit of fear and panic in his eyes. “I’m already willing to lay my life on the line for this baby.”

“Our baby,” Q reminds gently. “That’s normal. It’s your child, of course you’re protective. You’d do anything for them.”

“A name,” Bond reminds, a soft smile on his face.

“Leslie?”

“Oh god, Aaron, please,” he moans in protest. “Do not. If you say Kelly or Riley next I will swat you.”

Q makes a face. “How about Jesse?” Bond stares at him, unimpressed. “No. Right then.” All the names they brainstormed earlier are moot. They had either been boy or girl names and their child turned out to be neither.

Q freezes when it comes to him. “How about McKenzie?”  For a moment, Bond says nothing and Q is sure he'll shoot it down because of his love for the -ee at the end of names. But Bond just stares at the infant in the cot with a reverent look on his face.

“Scottish, isn’t it?” he finally says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He thinks of Skyfall in the Scottish countryside, his time there as a boy.

“Yes,” Q says slowly. “Mind as well stay true to her heritage, I thought.” He shrugs. “Can go for either a girl or boy, you know. Mac or Kenzie for a nick-name.”

“Means son of Kenneth,” Bond says, turning to him.

“Would you rather we named him Jaime? After son of James? Or daughter of James?”

“Too British,” Bond consented. “I like McKenzie.”

“McKenzie Bond,” Q says. “Welcome home, little one.”

“Mmm,” Bond murmurs, curling an arm around Q’s waist. Kincade is coming down next week. While they’re at work, Kincade will watch McKenzie. Q will be home to do the honors when Bond is away on missions. They’ve set up extra security through Moneypenny and Tanner, whom they’d settled on for a godfather. He could keep his mouth shut, they’re sure.

Bond has his husband and his child. A passionate swell of emotion chokes him for a moment as McKenzie yawns, little pink mouth popping open, eyes squinted shut. Q makes a choked off sound of adoration and if Bond wasn’t as battle-hardened as he was, he would be echoing Q. He’s happy with this; he can do this. He _wants_ to do this.

“Welcome home.”


	2. The Foam On The Corner Of Your Mouth Makes Me Want To Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q has had the worst day. For starters, some idiot that was not his husband tried hitting on him. Then after that, there had been an assassination attempt on the Prime Minister, and shortly thereafter, one of their field agents had broken cover and all hell had broken loose. Surprisingly enough, this one also hadn’t been Bond. 
> 
> Q pretty much hates just about everyone right now and really just wants to go home, thanks very much.
> 
> OR
> 
> It's an impromptu Bring Your Kid To Work Day when Q and Bond are called into MI-6 late at night an there's no one to watch the baby. Of course, so many of their secrets come out to the majority of their colleagues, including the new M, since no one knows about their relationship. The emergency also spurs a very important decision about the life of their child and about their jobs in MI-6.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to get up. I have been super busy. 
> 
> Either way, I hope you enjoy!

Q has had the worst day. For starters, some idiot that was not his husband tried hitting on him. Then after that, there had been an assassination attempt on the Prime Minister, and shortly thereafter, one of their field agents had broken cover and all hell had broken loose. Surprisingly enough, this one also hadn’t been Bond.

Q pretty much hates just about everyone right now and really just wants to go home, thanks very much.

He’s honestly thinking about giving himself an early day when he hears the tell-tale sound of someone walking up behind him, no doubt to ask something of him. He wants to bitch to them, but instead turns around, ready to let his facial expression do all the talking. When he realizes who it is, he’s kind of glad that he didn’t mouth off.

“M,” he says, sitting up straight in his swivel chair. “How may I be of service, sir?”

“Here for your monthly report is all, Quartermaster,” the man responds with an ill-fitting smile.

“Ah, yes. That time already,” Q says, wiping a hand down his face in exhaustion. “One moment, please.” He ruffles through his desk, gathering his papers and reports together on the progress of Q-branch for the past month and then clips it all together, handing it to M. “There you are.”

But M isn’t looking at the stack of papers he’s now holding. He’s looking at Q’s hand. Q hazards a look, wondering if there’s something on his hand that he was unaware of. He doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary though, so he’s stumped as to why Mallory – excuse him, M, is staring.

“Sir?”

“You’ve got a wedding band. On your finger,” M says out of the blue.

Q blinks slowly. “Yes. That’d be because I’m married.”

“You are?” M looks perturbed. “How long?”

“You could just… check my file?” Q says, but then he sees the agitated look on M’s face and says, “Three years, sir.”

“You didn’t have the band last week?” M says by way of question.

To this, Q shrugs and says, “My idiot of a spouse almost closed my hand in our dishwasher and it bent the ring. I had it fixed.” He raises an eyebrow. “Anything else you want to know M?”

It’s as if the new head of MI-6 realizes how rude and invasive he’s been and he steps back, taking the report files with him. “No. Thank you, Quartermaster. Carry on, then.” Q waits for the man to be gone before he lets his head slam down on the desk.

“Everyone in this bloody business is so nosey,” he gripes. Then he lifts his head and glares at his underlings. “Stop proving my point and get to work!”

Yeah. He’s going home early.

* * *

Bond is going through some exercises, seeing as he’d broken his arm a few weeks ago and was getting back in the field. He needs to strengthen it up, obviously. Bond’s got his music up in the training room of MI-6, working through elementary exercises, his shirt off, his legs clad in shorts. He lifts his arms up and stretches as M walks in.

He can never have a moment of peace, can he?

“007,” M says, looking down at some files. They look like they’re from Q-branch, and Bond only knows that because his husband runs the damn place and had asked Bond his opinion on the stationary when he was ordering it.

“M,” Bond says, continuing on with his exercises. He’s not going to stop just for Mallory – yes, he has some respect for the man, but it’ll always be Mallory in his head. He’s too used to a different M in a different time and Mallory taking up the name won’t change that.

“I have a mission for you in Bosnia next week,” he says nonchalantly, looking though the file still.

“And this required a personalized visit, sir?” Bond asks, doing chin ups on a high bar to test his arm. It’s feeling ok, so that’s a good sign.

“Yes, actually, agent,” Mallory says, finally looking up. “We’ve got a-” He stops and Bond looks up to find him staring at his chest. Which is odd.

“Sir? We’ve got a what?”

“What is that?” Mallory asks, then remembers himself. “Agent.”

Bond looks at his chest and sees the tattoo on his ribs, on the left side. A string is knotted around a small patch of rib inked onto his skin near his heart, with a tag and date tattooed onto it. He’s never had to explain that before, but he shrugs. No need to give him all the details.

“Married,” Bond explains. “Three years ago, give or take. I’d rather not use rings in this line of business and I won’t be sleeping with anyone else so no one will see me with my shirt off long enough to ask.” He lifts and eyebrow. “Sir.”

“Odd,” Mallory says, shaking his head.

“Excuse me?” Bond says, taking offense. He thought getting it tattooed was a brilliant idea.

“Not you,” Mallory clarifies with a wave of his hand. “Second person I’ve discovered has a spouse today.”

“Who’s the first?” Bond asks curiously, but Mallory shakes his head.

“Confidentiality, Agent Bond,” Mallory says walking out of the training room.

“But not from you, sir?” Bond says as he walks out.

Mallory simply laughs as he leaves, and Bond decides that the exercising has been enough for the day. He wants to go home.

One’s boss probing into one’s personal life does that.

* * *

Bond makes his way to his flat without a fuss. He gets to the building and buzzes himself in, nodding to a woman standing on the bottom floor, probably waiting for her cab to arrive. She gives him a beaming smile and he just waves in response. There are, he’s beginning to notice, downfalls to not wearing a wedding band. There are also pros, he remembers, like him being in the field and at first glance, an enemy not realizing the real way to fuck with him.

Bond heaves himself up the stairs to the flat. Well, what looks like it anyway. It’s really just an empty room that would confuse anyone who happened to follow him home. The real flat is above it, and Bond finds the little door on the ceiling, almost like an attic door, and stands on his tip-toes to yank it down. A collapsible ladder rolls down and he climbs up, pulling the ladder up once he’s gotten into the actual flat.

He can smell food sizzling on the stove. Mmm. Aaron must be cooking.

Slowly, because now his arm is starting to ache from its earlier abuse, Bond makes his way into the sitting room, which is right beside the kitchen. Q’s back is toward him, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he cooks, and he’s dancing to whatever’s on the radio. Near the entrance to the kitchen is a playpen, and in it is McKenzie. Bond breaks out into a smile at the sight of the nearly-one year old grinning at him with a gap-toothed smile.

James swoops in and scoops up the baby into his arms, kissing a tiny cheek with a loud smacking noise to make McKenzie giggle. It’s at that moment that Q hears something and turns around to the sight of Bond being absolutely adorable with their child.

“Fatherhood suits you,” he says, amused, then turns back to his cooking as Bond makes a face at him.

“Daddy is being mean,” James says to the baby, who only gurgles in response and mumbles some nonsense happily. “Look Q,” Bond says, getting closer to his husband. “Our child is disappointed in you.”

Q turns around slowly, hands on his hips, looking at Bond and the baby, who’s hiding their little face in Bond’s neck. “Oh are they now?” he says. He gets closer and it ends up a chase, Q running after James, McKenzie laughing hysterically as her parents ran around with him, acting like complete loons. It’s entertaining for a baby, one can only imagine.

Hours later, Bond and Q are slumped on the couch, the remnants of their dinner lying around on the coffee table Bond nicked them in Madrid. Q is curled up beside him, head on his shoulder, eyes closed, glasses sliding down his nose. Bond gives him a crooked smile, his heart stuttering in his chest at the sight. This is MI-6’s top information technology man and he’s currently passed out cold on the family couch while their child is asleep in the cot a few rooms away. Bond turns on the TV and flips to the CCTV channel Q has of McKenzie’s room.

“God, we are paranoid parents, aren’t we?” Q mumbles beside him, into his shoulder. He sits up, blinking his eyes blearily and together, they watch their baby sleep on the screen.

“Do you think more boy or girl? McKenzie’s looks I mean,” Bond says thoughtfully. “I know she’s got that weird thing with his genitals-”

“James!” Q groans reproachfully.

“Hey, I change those nappies just as much as you do, Aaron,” Bond says. “Now, your honest opinion.”

“Both, neither, who cares?” Q says. He looks at the baby, the delicate brown hair curly-cueing behind small ears, the snub nose, the hazel eyes he knows are behind closed lids. He can only think of it as his baby and nothing else.

“No, it doesn’t matter,” Bond says quietly. “Gonna be a pain in the ass when it comes to school though.”

Q laughs and laughs and loudly agrees, snorting through it all. Bond smacks him and tells him he’s going to wake the baby. He doesn’t.

* * *

It’s 2 AM when both their phones go off. Bond untangles himself from Q’s body and reaches for his cell on the night table while Q fishes under his pillow for his. Their phones are to their ears and the message is the same, though from different sources: MI-6 is under attack and they’re both needed. Their phones go off at the same moment and in seconds, both are out of bed and dressed in whatever clothes they grabbed first.

McKenzie starts to cry.

“Oh shit,” Q swears. “What the hell are we supposed to-“

“Take Mac with us,” Bond says without hesitation. “It’s risky, but as long at the two of you stay in Q-branch it’ll work. You’ve checked e-mails and written code during snack time, I’m sure you can do this with the tyke half asleep. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Q frowns and wants to protest, but he knows Bond is right. So he runs into the baby’s room and bundles the infant up. McKenzie fusses for a moment, but then settles in his arms, and Q meets Bond downstairs.

“Oh, we’re taking the Aston Martin?” Q asks. Bond had bought it shortly after they had gotten married, a gift to himself after losing his vintage one at Skyfall. Bond shrugs and takes McKenzie from him, strapping the baby in the car-seat in the back. “Sexy,” Q says, getting into the passenger’s side seat, Bond hoping into the driver’s side. “A vintage sports car with a car seat in the back and a baby in it too. _Bonus_. I do love a man with a baby.” He leers at Bond, who returns it with a tired smile.

“Then you did a good job marrying me,” he says as he starts the car, and they’re off to MI-6 in no time.

* * *

“Talk to me,” are the first words out of Q’s mouth as he walks into Q-branch, a baby on his hip. His underlings look at him in shock, their silence deafening.

“You heard the man,” Bond says, walking in behind him and guiding Q to his main seat in the center of the room. “Talk!”

The underlings put aside the odd happenings for a while and start to buzz with excitement, the ones closest to them whispering while their eyes flicked to the child in Q’s arms. Apparently, someone had broken into MI-6 from an independent terrorist group. No one knows how they got in, or so they say. Q snorts.

“Of course you don’t, that’s why I’m here. James, take Kenzie for a moment? I need to get my computer set up.” He hands Bond the baby and then his hands whip across the keyboard, pulling up tabs on the big screen and typing code faster than Bond’s eyes could follow. He barks orders to his underlings and they get to work, sitting at their stations and typing things up.

Bond’s earpiece buzzes and he switches Mac over to his hip so he can use his other hand to press the receive button. “Bond.”

“We need you on the ground floor. You’re the only 00 agent available,” comes Mallory’s voice. “Where are you?”

“In Q-branch in my pajamas,” Bond snarks.

“I hope you didn’t like that set,” Mallory says. “Because they might get torn apart. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”

* * *

Bond is handing Q the baby when M walks in. The sight is quite a surprise to him, seeing the two agents not only intimately familiar together, but also handling a child between the two of them. When gets close enough he catches snatches of their conversation.

“They have no idea who this is-” Q is saying.

“An independent terrorist groupie,” Bond corrects, smoothing a hand over the baby’s back.

“Exactly! And they’re sending you in alone?”

“I’ll have you in my ear and a gun in my hand. Just keep the both of you safe and I can handle the rest from there. Honestly Aaron, you act like I don’t do this for a living. Relax,” Bond says, his voice dropping and getting soft, an irritating smile on his face.

“Right,” Q says with a huff. “Because you almost-die about a thousand times a month, I get it.” He looks Bond in the eye and swallows. “Be careful then.” His chin is up and Mallory can see him holding it together, just barely.

Suddenly, Bond wraps his arms around Q, the infant trapped between their bodies, as if they’re making a protective barrier around the baby. Bond presses his forehead to Q’s and squeezes his eyes closed for a moment before opening them again and smiling. Then Q fists his free hand in Bond’s nightshirt and pulls him in for a kiss, mashing their lips together. It’s desperate and hungry and manic, as if they both are going off to their deaths, and everyone stares at the spectacle. When Bond pulls away, he smiles softly and drops a kiss to the baby’s forehead.

“And to think Mac’ll sleep through all the excitement,” he says.

“Oh shut up and go get yourself almost-killed,” Q says, back to normal, shoving his agent away.

Mallory is confused; also, things are starting to make sense around here for the first time in a while.

Bond makes his way to Mallory, his face slowly changing. His smile melts away as he gets closer, a furrow coming between his brows, his mouth turning into a straight, grim line. He stops in front of Mallory, his hands folded behind his back, and stands to attention.

“Three years, you say,” is all Mallory says.

The corner of Bond’s mouth twitches up into a smile, like he can’t help it. He gives a subtle nod. “Sir.”

“Huh.” He shakes his head. “Ground floor, we’ve got him on camera in one of the vaults. No quarter, 007. Take him out.”

“Sir,” Bond says and nods. He turns on his heel, snagging his extra gun from Q’s desk, and loads it. He cracks his neck and gives the baby’s cheek one last caress before he’s off and out of Q-branch, off to do his job.

“He closed the dishwasher door on your hand?” Mallory asks incredulously as he sidles up next to Q to watch Bond’s progress on the screen.

“He’s clumsy in the kitchen,” Q says, all his attention focused on the screen and what he’s typing. “And he had Kenzie in his arms at the time. You’d think him graceful for a 00 agent.” Q snorts. “Not in the least.”

Mallory gives a thoughtful grunt to that.

* * *

“I can hear you bad-mouthing me,” Bond says on his end. He’s slinking down the hall, almost to the culprit. “I’m hurt.”

“Oh shut up, you oaf,” Q says. And then: “Oh, the baby’s awake. Say hello, love.”

“Hey McKenzie,” Bond whispers into his comm.

“I was talking to the infant,” Q says, but Bond can hear the smile in his voice, and the responding gurgle is all he needs to hear to smile himself. He turns serious when he hears sounds of gunfire in the distance. “He’s fifty feet away,” Bond says, voice all business. “Shots fired. Can’t get a good look at him yet.”

“Don’t fire, not until I see what files he’s trying to look at. Do understand 007?” Q says into his mike.

“Understood Q,” Bond responds and proceeds into the vault room.

* * *

It’s a showdown after that.

Shots are fired, Bond is yelling, the culprit is screaming and someone’s stray bullet takes the cameras out where they are. Q feels his chest get tight as he looks at the camera, willing any sign of life to come across from it, but there’s nothing but snow and an irritating buzz.

“007,” he says, waiting for that familiar voice to fill his ear. “Agent Bond,” he tries again. Nothing. Q feels the hysteria flood through his veins, and he can’t breathe correctly. No, this can’t be. He’s a father, he’s a husband. He can’t be dead now. “James!” he finally yells, desperate and terrified.

“Stop yelling in my ear, Aaron, I get enough of that at home,” comes the tired voice, followed by a hacking cough.

Q lets out a huge, shaky sigh of relief and says, voice thick with unshed tears, “You bastard. I’ll be doing more than yelling when you get your arse back here. I thought-”

“Wrong. You thought wrong, I’m fine. But the bastard is heading to Q branch. Take cover with the baby. If he touches either of you-”

“He won’t, relax,” Q says. “We’ve got it under contro-”

Some starts to shoot behind him. Q slowly turns and is met with a manic looking man. By the words he’s speaking, he’s Russian. And he’s angry.

“Oh bugger,” he mutters under his breath as the gun is pointed at him and the baby. A cold fear grips him. This is not what he had in mind for tonight.

“Q? What the hell is going on? Aaron!”

“James,” he starts, but then the man is pulling back the hammer on his gun and his finger is on the trigger and-

A gunshot goes off in MI-6’s Q-branch at 3AM.

* * *

“Take cover with the baby, I said,” Bond whines. “Don’t let him get to either of you, I said.”

“Oh do shut up,” Q says from where he is, sitting in his swivel chair. When Bond had shot the man, sneaking up behind him when he was distracted, Q had thought he’d been shot and was in shock. He’d been convinced otherwise by his agent and was now sitting, covered in blankets, McKenzie buried underneath with him. The baby had started screaming bloody murder at the sound of a gunshot so near, and both the infant’s parents had feared they’d been hit.

McKenzie is, actually, fine.

“The fuck are we going to do now?” Bond says quietly.

“Ask for a holiday and stay home for a week?” Q says, feigning ignorance.

“Aaron,” Bond says exasperatedly.

“I don’t know,” Q answers honestly. “I never meant for our coworkers to find out about us like this, or to find out about our child. And now that McKenzie has been exposed…”

“No,” Bond says. “Our child is not finding out about any of this,” he blurts. Q stares at him. “This is why I was afraid of having children in the first place Q,” Bond says tiredly. “My worst fear has been realized.”

“Oh and you don’t think it isn’t mine as well?” Q snaps. “So you regret this?”

“No, no, I don’t regret it,” Bond says softly, tiredly. He closes his eyes and rests his head on Q’s knee from where he’s sitting on the floor. “I just never knew almost losing the two people you care about the most could be so exhausting. I don’t actually ever want to reacquaint myself with this feeling. Ever again, in fact.”

“So you think we just shouldn’t ever make Mac aware,” Q says, just as soft. “What good will that do?”

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” Bond says, a very old piece of advice if Q will say so himself. “If Kenzie doesn’t know about our jobs, then no one will want to go after her, because what threat will he be?”

“Oh I do so love it when you mix personal pronouns so flawlessly,” Q says softly, trying to lighten the mood. But it’s an agreement, a silent agreement because he can’t think of anything better. “Nothing good will come of this. When Mac’s grown-up a bit-”

“When McKenzie is grown we’ll talk,” Bond says, cutting him off. “Until then, there’s no need. Yes?”

“Yes,” Q says, closing his eyes. “Can we go home yet?”

“Not my call,” Bond answers. He looks to where Mallory is speaking with someone about repairing the damage to the ground floor vault room and then walks over to them when he catches Bond’s look.

“Agent Bond,” he says to Bond. “Mr. Bond,” he says to Q. “I’d take it you’d like to return home?”

“That would be the point of his death glare, M,” Q says, with a raised eyebrow in reference to Bond.

“Take a holiday,” M says neatly, turning away. “Sort yourselves out, yes?”

“Don’t worry,” Bond mutters, standing and helping Q up so as not to disturb the baby. “We’ve got ourselves sorted plenty.”

* * *

_16 years later_

“Max!” Bond calls, looking about the flat. “Max!” He shakes his head in frustration. “McKenzie Bond!” Bond stomps back to his and Q’s room, a bit pissed. “Where the devil is he?”

Q raises an eyebrow and shrugs. He puts down a box and dusts off his hands. They’ve just moved into a house on the English countryside. Bond is done with MI-6 as an agent, moving up to a place of management and Q is still Quartermaster, one of the longest they’ve ever had. It’s a different world there with M – or should they call him Mallory? – once again replaced by someone else. 

“I don’t know,” he says indignantly, cleaning his glasses on his sweater. “He’s your son.”

“He’s yours too, you know,” Bond says with a smile. “Ah, let him be. We have things to do. He sidles up to Q, wrapping his arms around the other man’s waist.

“Do we?” Q says, running his fingers through Bond’s hair, where the gray has come in, a finger trailing down his face to trace a thin wrinkle by his eye, there from all his smiling.

“We do,” Bond responds and drags him into the new bedroom for some bed-christening.

* * *

 

Meanwhile, in a separate room a few doors down, McKenzie Bond, affectionately known as Max in his older years (yes, _his_ ) looks through an old box that came with the move labeled “007 and Q; handle with care”.  He’s still trying to puzzle over the Walther that won’t shoot, the scrabble mug with a Q on it that he hasn’t seen his Dad use in years and the thick manila folder filled with papers inscribed with name after name of people he doesn’t actually know.

Max would also love to know what the fuck Skyfall is and who the fuck M is. And what exactly 007 and Q mean.

He’ll ask his parents later. For now, he sits back and slowly counts the names on the list. _One, two, three…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I'm going to continue this. 
> 
> So.
> 
> I dunno. If anyone's interested?

**Author's Note:**

> I looked on the NOVA website for my intersex information. I didn't know whether a son or daughter should be had for them, so then I thought, these boys never do it easy, so there. Um, you can google the kind of intersex condition McKenzie has. That's one of the traditional ways to spell it and it does mean Son of Kenneth. I know because, well, that's not how /I/ spell it, but that's my name. 
> 
> Obviously I prefer Max, but still. 
> 
> And yes, maybe a bit cliche of me to use my own name, but I like it and it's Scottish and so is Bond and it's gender neutral (Thank God for me) and such. So. I thought, why the fuck not? And I mean, why the fuck not?


End file.
